Since that night up at Syron Lake, everything I’d researched and written had had to do with the spill. The folder with the incomplete draft of the romance novel had remained unopened on my computer’s desktop, and the pile of printed pages had sat on the table, untouched.
Besides fearing the book was gut-wrenchingly bad, I was trying to avoid thinking about romance because doing so inevitably led to having to fight off images of Peter.
I had been steadily plowing through an eight-page judgment when the bold red line at the bottom right corner of my screen indicated an email had just landed in my Inbox.
The sender was “CNRA.”
Junk mail, I immediately thought. And then it struck me that that was the acronym for the Canadian Nuclear Regulatory Authority.
My heart pounded against my ribs. My palms itched.
I clicked to open the message.
“Please, please, please,” I chanted with closed eyes.
Finally, I looked again at the screen and read aloud.
“We would like to inform you that the Authority has approved your request…”
I sprang to my feet.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
I was in! The CNRA hearing and the class action gave us, the little people, a one-two punch against a rampaging corporate predator, or the “greedy bastards” as Osgood called them.
Between the two, there was enough work doing research and writing up papers to occupy an entire small, non-profit. I would be completely buried in this radioactive spill for some time. But that was good because it gave me something to do, something through which I could make a real difference in the world. My time with Adam at the salmon non-profit, and all those rallies he had sent me out to had ignited the passion that now burned inside me to hold corporate raiders to account for harming the environment.
Besides, the romance novel was going nowhere. I needed the break from it and from all the memories of Peter that it inevitably dredged up.
For the sake of my sanity alone, I would have gladly taken on the two projects. With my minuscule house payments and my frugal lifestyle, I could spare a month or two, maybe even as many as four, to dedicate to this battle. After I’d submitted the letter requesting to participate in the hearing, though, I’d learned that I was entitled to apply to the CNRA for compensation for any time I spent to participate in the proceeding. This unexpected good news made me think everything was working in my favor to enable me to get somewhere with this.
Outside, tires rolled over the gravel in the driveway. I could see only a headlamp, so I walked around the table to peer out. A navy blue Mercedes Benz came to a stop. The driver’s door swung open and Tito Demetriou stepped out of the vehicle. He took off his shades and walked toward my house with an intent look on his face.
In my rush to get to the door, I knocked over a pile of loose sheets from the table. The pages of my novel cascaded down and scattered all over the floor.
Fine time for this mess to happen.
“Ms Jacob,” he said when I opened the door.
“Mayor Demetriou.”
Yes, he had been returned for a fourth term. Not with any help from me, though. I had given my vote to guy in the short sleeves.
“May I come in?”
I was tempted to make him stand outside, but found myself opening the door wider and stepping aside to let him in.
“Ms Jacob, how long have you been in this town?”
I noticed him scanning the messy floor. When he looked at me again, his eyes bore a new level of contempt.
“I think I mentioned to you the last time we spoke in your office that I moved here at the end of August.”
“So what’s that? Less than ninety days?”
“I haven’t been keeping count.”
“The exact figure doesn’t really matter. At any rate, it’s a very short time. Almost no time to fully understand this place, its history, and how hard people have worked to make it what it is. Much less what it takes to keep it going.”
“I can assure you, Mayor Demetriou, I did my research on Syron Lake before I moved here.”
“Research? What? Reading Wikipedia and a bunch of old newspaper articles?”
His tone jarred, and I fought to control my breathing.
“Do you think that qualifies you to say you know better than people who’ve spent their lives building this town what’s right for Syron Lake right now?”
Tito Demetriou may have been the mayor, but he seemed to be forgetting he was standing on my property as he spoke.
“What’s your point, Mr Demetriou?”
“I understand you were at the Garter Lake reservation, yesterday.”
“And?”
“And you were trying to drum up support for some class action lawsuit you seem to be planning against Syron Lake Resources.”
I said nothing.
“Now listen here, miss. Nobody needs you to roll in here to try to play you’re some kind of crusader. You’re going to do the people in this town more harm than good.”
My heart pounded against my ribs, but I folded my arms and cocked my head, and put on my most insolent expression.
Demetriou stood akimbo and sneered.
“Ms Jacob, Syron Lake had an unfortunate accident only because there was a big storm that the dam couldn’t handle. But don’t you understand that the more you run about making noise about it, the more you damage the image of this community?”
I pursed my lips.
Demetriou jabbed his right index at me.
“With a court case — which you will more than likely lose — you’d be dragging the name of Syron Lake through the mud for years with unfounded accusations about radioactive pollution. Think about what effect that will have on how people from outside will look at Syron Lake. Think about how that will affect property prices.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I found myself raising my voice despite my better judgment. “Syron Lake Resources is responsible for leaking millions of gallons of radioactive waste into the environment and I’m harming the community if I make efforts to hold them to account?”
“There was no environmental harm. The waste flooded from one containment area into an older containment area that was immediately reinforced. You can’t win this lawsuit.”
“According to you. But I think we a fighting chance. And we won’t find out who’s right unless the lawsuit is actually filed, won’t we?”
“No environmental class action has been won in Canada, Ms Jacob. This isn’t the United States. And you’re no Erin Brockovich.”
There it was. Another slap in the face from the mayor.
“I think I’ve heard enough of this,” I said.
I walked to the door and swung it open, then folded my arms and looked Demetriou squarely in the eyes.
He glanced again at the mess on the floor and snorted before walking toward the door. He stopped just before stepping outside.
“You had better put an end to your silly games, for your own good,” he said.
The second both his feet were out on the top step, I slammed the door shut.
I found myself trembling from the very core as I knelt to gather up the pages. I let myself fall back on my buttocks as the reality of what had just happened hit me.
I had just had a fight with the most powerful man in Syron Lake. And I had virtually kicked him out the door. Me, the mousy girl who cowered if she heard two people raising their voices at each other.
What did the mayor mean when he said I should stop what I was doing “for my own good”? Was that some kind of
threat?
I stared out the bay window that had sold me on the place. A nice, quiet little town. Fresh air. Closeness to Nature. Perfect place to settle down and get that novel done….
How could everything have been turned upside down in such a short space of time?
Chapter 29
“I need answers, man. Can’t go into the director’s office empty-handed the next time he calls me up. I need answers.”
Simmons’ voice cracked. He leaned against the wall in Sarah Cohen’s office with his eyes closed as he rubbed his temples.
The FBI analyst looked up from her computer and chuckled. She tore a sheet from her note pad, crumpled it, and sent it flying straight for Simmons’ chest. It met its mark.
Startled, Simmons shook his head and his eyes flung open.
“Get a hold of yourself, Spike,” Cohen said.
“It’s easy to laugh when it’s not your head on the chopping block.”
“Why are you beating yourself up over this Mahler case? And you’ve got so much other work to do.”
“The director’s breathing down my neck about this.”
Simmons felt more than a tinge of pride in saying that. The pressure had robbed him of sleep and, he suspected, was responsible for the persistent headache that hounded him. But its source somehow made it alright; in fact, better than alright. He didn’t mind spreading it around that he was taking heat directly from the very top.
He walked over to Cohen’s desk and leaned on it, half sitting, half standing. “What more have you got for me?”
“Okay. I’m going to say we should eliminate the theory about some kind of political involvement. I’m just not seeing it.”
“Are you sure? The director was pretty worked up about that.”
“Throughout the period Magrelma Mines was supposedly some kind of front for the CIA, it operated only in Africa, in five countries. True, three of those countries experienced a regime change. But two of the deposed dictators are long dead, and the third has been in a coma in a Saudi Arabian hospital going on a year now.”
“What about rivals at other companies?”
“Nothing’s coming up on the radar. No recent aggressive battles for territory; no take-over fights. I’d say, given that the killer had to have gained intimate knowledge of the Mahlers’ home and his circumstances on the night of the murder, we should be focusing on suspects that were close to him.”
“Well, we have that one partner who fought with him in the bar.”
“Yes, Daniel Greene. The argument was about an abandoned uranium mining site in a small town in Canada called Syron Lake. And check this, Spike.” Cohen motioned Simmons to come to her side of the desk.
She pulled up the Syron Lake Resources website and clicked through to the press release with the headline, “No environmental impact from breach.”
Simmons rested one hand on the back of Cohen’s chair and leaned over her shoulder toward the computer. His eyes darted from left to right across the screen. He blinked slowly when he got to the end. He stood up and sighed.
“So, by coincidence, Syron Lake Resources is in the news because a dam burst after a storm, two weeks ago,” he said. “What does that have to do with this case?”
“But was it a coincidence?”
Simmons jerked back his head. “Come on, Sarah. Really?”
“Look, you asked me to come up with something. That’s the best I’ve got so far.”
Simmons stared at her.
Cohen shrugged.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll admit that speculating that the breach was deliberate doesn’t get us anywhere in finding a motive to lay Mahler’s murder at Greene’s feet. The company is set to give up its license to manage that site. And, besides, Maitland took over control of the company, so I don’t see that anything’s changed to better Greene’s lot since Mahler died.”
“No, Maitland’s the one who benefited.” Simmons recalled what Director Hutton had said about the reins of power and wondered whether “benefited” was the right word in the circumstances.
“That puts him pretty high on the list of suspects,” Cohen said. “The name ‘Magrelma’ is made up of the first two letters of the surnames of the founders, in order of the size of their shares in the company….”
“Mahler, Greene, Ellis, and Maitland,” Simmons said, dropping himself onto the chair at the side of Cohen’s desk.
“That’s right.”
“So Maitland has always been the small fry in Magrelma.”
“Exactly. But there was a written agreement that if Mahler died, the direction of the company would pass to the next surviving founder in line.”
“With Bernard Ellis and Isaac Greene dead and buried years ago…”
“Yes, Maitland stood to directly benefit from Mahler’s murder, grabbing control of Magrelma, even though Fran Mahler and the Greene family own more of the company than he does.”
“But that won’t last for long if Mahler’s widow can help it,” Simmons said. “The report from the field is that she’s moving ahead with a lawsuit so that she can take over.”
“The purpose of the lawsuit is to overturn this very agreement we’re talking about that gave Maitland control.”
“Okay, now I get it.” Simmons nodded. “If that’s the case, then she probably has a long, drawn-out battle ahead of her.”
“What I don’t understand,” Cohen said, “is if Maitland’s struggling in his position as we hear he is, why doesn’t he just step aside?”
“Male pride,” Simmons said with a shrug.
Cohen threw back her head and laughed.
Simmons shook his head and looked at her. “Seriously, Sarah, the man must have been dreaming of being top dog at that company for the last three decades. Now that he’s made it, do you think he’ll admit he’s not up to scratch, and just give way to a woman?”
“But for the sake of the business….”
Simmons shook his head more vigorously. “A man will hardly admit, even to himself, that he can’t handle a job. He’ll always tell himself he’ll probably learn what’s necessary, or that he might get lucky and things will work out by themselves. The last thing he’ll ever do is admit to anyone else that he’s incompetent; and he’ll especially not admit it to a woman gunning for his position.”
“So male pride and good sense don’t co-exist, then?”
“Sometimes they don’t.” Simmons shrugged, and then he winked at Cohen. “Just like female intuition and good sense sometimes don’t.”
Cohen raised her eyebrows.
“Anyway,” she said, “as for Fran Mahler, this business with the lawsuit just serves to heighten the focus on her as the main suspect.”
“I don’t know about that one. I mean, she, herself has raised suspicions that there was something fishy about Mahler’s death. Monaco had been portraying it as just an accident, but she came forward and said the nurse couldn’t have been smoking because she had never seen him smoke before, and he was well aware that she didn’t allow even Mahler to light up in the apartment.”
“Well, it could be that she’s not involved and genuinely raised that point to help the investigation….”
“But your suspicious mind says it could be otherwise.”
“Look, you can’t underestimate the tricks a person who commits murder would pull out to cover his or her tracks. She could very well have staged the whole thing and then brought up that little point with investigators to throw suspicion off herself. To make them think exactly what you just said a second ago.”
“I suppose.”
“Mahler’s widow benefited most from his dea
th. She inherited an insane amount. And she’s already seeing someone else, less than two months after her husband’s gone.”
“Not much of a surprise if they were both having affairs.” Struck by a thought, Simmons looked up suddenly.“Could it be that one of their lovers was behind this?”
Cohen shook her head. “Don’t forget this was a professional hit. Whoever ordered it must have had access to sufficient resources to arrange it. The Mahlers went downmarket for their dalliances. Actresses, models, personal trainers. People who they could use and easily discard, I guess.”
“So the wife it is.”
Cohen rolled her chair toward her desk and tapped on her keyboard.
“Well, there’s also Daniel Greene’s mother, Carmela.”
“I can’t see a motive for that one.”
“The latest report is that she’s set to join Fran Mahler in the lawsuit.”
“I read that in the notes from Paris. But even if those two win their case, it will be Fran Mahler in control, not Carmela Greene. And besides, there’s no record of Carmela Greene ever showing any interest in the business.”
“True, but it would put Daniel Greene closer to the reins of power at Magrelma. Carmela Greene is quite ambitious when it comes to her son. She boasts about him as being some kind of business hotshot.”
Simmons sighed. “Sarah, all this is pure spec—”
“Listen, Spike, there’s one other curiosity my research turned up that you might find interesting.” Cohen’s gaze was steady and her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Lay it on me.”
She placed a printout on the desk, in front of Simmons.“Here’s an item in a gossip column from the New Yorker, back in the eighties. The writer talks about a friend of hers getting engaged to Mahler the Wednesday before this column was written. Curiously, though, the fiancée mentioned is not Mahler’s first wife.”
Simmons splayed his hands for the details.
“It was one Angela Woodward.”
Simmons heaved his shoulders and scratched his head.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 14